


comfort

by weekend_conspiracy_theorist



Series: Star Trek Prompts [4]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 09:04:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12339624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weekend_conspiracy_theorist/pseuds/weekend_conspiracy_theorist
Summary: Bones is hurt; Spock holds his hand.





	comfort

“Doctor McCoy,” Spock says softly, and Len blinks. Well, it’s meant to be a blink–he’s not sure his eyes re-opened at the end.

He certainly can’t see the concern in Spock’s dark eyes any more.

Len licks his lips, trying to fumble for Spock’s arm and only succeeding in twitching a few fingers. “If there was ever–” he coughs weakly. “Ever a time t’ call me ‘Leonard’,” he manages to finish, with barely a rasp to his tired voice, and can almost feel the distinct lack of amusement being pointed his way.

“Doctor McCoy, please open your eyes.”

“Since when d’you say ‘please’?”

“ _Doctor_.”

The light in the cave is, thankfully, quite dim; he’s certain anything brighter would hurt, even with Spock’s face looming over most of his field of vision. Len breathes out through his mouth, almost managing to do so slowly enough to not aggravate his ribs.

“Transport?” he asks, studying the little lines at the edges of Spock’s lips–they’re his fault, probably, his and Jim’s. (Who else could possibly manage to make Spock frown?)

“Currently unavailable. Doctor, what can I do to help you?”

Len blinks again, properly this time, and licks his lips again. “Not much,” he admits, and Spock’s eyebrows pinch together ever so slightly. “Stable f’r now,” he says (slurs).

“Gonna be okay,” he adds on a whim, and Spock doesn’t give a slightly pained smile like Jim might’ve, doesn’t cradle Len’s head with long, slender fingers like he has in the past.

“That remains to be seen,” he’s informed instead, Spock’s tone softly admonishing, as if Len’s not completely aware of how dire his situation might become if they can’t get back to the ship sooner rather than later.

He closes his eyes once more, just barely catching his frustrated sigh before it can jar his ribs. “Thanks, Spock,” he mutters, sounding bitter even to his own ear.

“Doctor…”

Len refuses to think about the lost note in Spock’s voice. “Hail the ship?” he asks instead, grasping desperately for the professionalism that fails him so often.

“They are already aware of the situation.” There’s a moment of silence, of stillness, and then Spock’s hand closes slowly over Len’s where it rests limply at his side.

Spock’s fingers are cool and strong, though his grip is tentative and light; Len tries, for all the good it probably does, to use the contact to project confidence and trust, and grasps back physically as best he can.

“I took this action intending to provide comfort for you,” Spock informs him, with quiet traces of exasperation and fondness, “I do not need any myself.”

Len breathes out what would have been a snort under other circumstances. “Sure you don’t,” he mutters.

Spock doesn’t deign this worth a reply–yet he holds him just a bit tighter.

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted [here](https://enterprisetrampstamp.tumblr.com/post/166243862867/8-spones)


End file.
